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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164111">Ordinary Time</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree'>boughofawillowtree</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Priests, Based on a Tumblr Post, Catholicism, Clergy, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a tall pine tree, Father Crowley - Freeform, Good Omens Kink Meme, Holidays, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Inspired by Art, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Priests, father Aziraphale</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:42:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,943</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Father Aziraphale needs to hire an associate priest to help out at St. Sebastian's Catholic Church in Tadfield, he never expects to end up working alongside a man his own age with a past that includes a lot more than seminary school. </p><p>When Father Anthony Crowley is sent out by the Bishop to see about a job position in a little town called Tadfield, he never expects to end up living the quiet, contented, rooted life he'd never dared to dream of.</p><p>Oh - and neither of them expects to fall in love.</p><p>But as they say, the Lord works in mysterious ways.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>All Gifts Left In A Server For More Than A Fortnight, Clerical Omens, Good Omens Human AUs, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ordinary Time</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gayforgoodomens/gifts">Gayforgoodomens</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/728409">Priests AU</a> by gayforgoodomens.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a gift for @gayforgoodomens based on her amazing <a href="https://gayforgoodomens.tumblr.com/tagged/priests-au">Priests AU.</a> I really adore her interpretations of the ineffable husbands and her art style, and I was super inspired and glad to get to work on this!<a href="https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/">Good Omens Kink Meme</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>EPIPHANY</b>
</p><p>Father Aziraphale sighed as he looked over the pile of applications the Diocese had sent over. He knew he needed a new associate priest - he had been the rector of the St. Sebastian's Parish in Tadfield for twelve years on his own, and the Bishop had made it clear that he needed some “new blood” in the place.</p><p><em> I thought the blood of Christ was sufficient </em>, he mumbled, flipping through the paperwork. But as much as he hated to admit it, Bishop Gabriel was probably right. While the older parishioners still came every Sunday at 8am like clockwork, the fact was that they hadn’t attracted any young families in years, and while the elderly were reliable church attendees as long as they were living, they had lost a number of members lately simply to the inevitabilities of time.</p><p>Even the Christmastide season, which typically brought families and other folks out of the woodwork, had been downright anemic when it came to attendance.</p><p>As a result, the amount in the collection plate every week was dwindling - and while Father Aziraphale knew better than to fuss over material possessions, the reduction in numbers did have the unfortunate effect of attracting the Bishop’s attention, as well as making it difficult to keep the lights on.</p><p>And so he was being hard pressed to hire a new associate from this crop of fresh faced seminary graduates with more energy than sense, who would come rolling in with a pile of new ideas that would surely alienate the loyal parishioners they actually did have, with the added bonus of costing a lot of money and making a big mess. </p><p>Aziraphale sighed again. What even was an “interactive, full immersion contemporary worship experience”? He set that cover letter aside, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. If he had to read one more sentence about “making an ancient faith relevant in a 21st century culture,” he was certain he would need a drink, and it was only eleven in the morning. Best to leave it be for now.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Despite his nerves, Father Crowley couldn’t help but smile as he wound his way through the narrow streets of Tadfield, following his phone’s GPS directions to the tiny little Catholic church. It had snowed the night before, but the roads were tidy and well-kept, just like everything else about the town.</p><p><em> You don’t belong here </em>, whispered a dark little voice inside his head as he rounded the corner and pulled into the church’s mostly empty parking lot. He had learned long ago to rebuke those nasty little thoughts, but at this moment, he couldn’t exactly disagree. </p><p>Tadfield was rural, close-knit, quaint. Its edges were smooth, worn down by years of history, a community insulated and turned inwards on itself. Not like him - sharp-edged, roughened by a long and difficult journey. A son of the London streets, in more ways than one. </p><p>But also, he knew now, a child of the Lord. And if he had learned one thing on the winding journey of recovery and faith, it was that no one ever truly belonged anywhere on this earth, until they simply made the decision to. To claim somewhere as their own and start doing the difficult work of belonging.</p><p>Would Tadfield be his place? He didn’t know. But trust, and willingness, were also practices he’d learned, and he had been sent here, and so he would be open. <em> That’s all I can offer, Lord. Openness to Your will. </em></p><p>Of course, it wasn’t exactly God who had sent him here. Bishop Gabriel might be his boss, but it was hard most days to see the man as an agent of God’s will. <em> I knew a man in Christ, indeed </em>, he thought with sarcasm as he shut his car door and made his way toward the church offices.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Father Aziraphale?” </p><p>Aziraphale looked up from his reverie to find Ana standing in the doorway of his office. The young woman had been serving as the “parish administrator” for over seven years now, and she did nearly everything, from arranging rentals of the sanctuary for local organ concerts to making sure they’d ordered enough salt for the pathways to keeping track of the bulletin printing schedule.</p><p>“Yes, Ana?”</p><p>“Someone’s here to see you. About the job.”</p><p>“What job?”</p><p>Ana made a confused face and pointed to the pile of applications on his desk. “The associate priest position, I think. Aren’t we looking to hire?”</p><p>Aziraphale stood from his desk, feeling caught off guard. “Here? In person?” What was this, the nineteen forties? Since when did people just show up in person to ask about a job? </p><p>“He says Bishop Gabriel sent him.” Ana gave an apologetic wince. Though Father Aziraphale was careful not to let the general parish population see it, it had been impossible to hide his disdain for the current Bishop from her. </p><p>“Fantastic.” Father Aziraphale could only imagine what sort of preach-in-jeans, guitar-playing, tradition-be-damned twenty-something the Bishop had seen fit to torment him with today. “Wish I could just hire you,” he mumbled to Ana as he pulled on his coat - it was rather warm for a winter’s day, and he hoped he could tempt this visitor to a walk around the grounds rather than letting him come sit in his office for an interminable, one-sided conversation about whatever nonsense they’re leaving seminary with these days. </p><p>Ana raised her eyebrows. “I’m in, but you’ll have to be the one to tell the Bishop.”</p><p>Aziraphale gave Ana a weary but playful smile. “If only,” he said.</p><p>The issue of women priests in the Catholic Church was a thorny one, and if he was honest, he wished they would all just get over themselves already. The Church of England had been ordaining women for decades now, and seemed to be doing just fine.</p><p>Frankly, he thought, the Church could do worse than putting faithful, brilliant women like Ana in charge for once. </p><p>And after that, they ought to revisit this issues of celibacy, and homosexuality, and - <em> No </em> , Aziraphale stopped himself with a mental turnaround. <em> Best not to go there </em>. Not while he was about to fake his way through an ‘interview’ to keep the Bishop happy.</p><p>“Alright,” he sighed. “Show the young man in.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Given how startled the Tadfield rector looked when he first laid eyes on Father Anthony Crowley, it was clear that Bishop Gabriel had not kept up his promise to call ahead and make introductions. </p><p>“Pleasure to meet you,” Anthony said, extending his hand to the blonde, rather plump priest who had come out to see him. “Aziraphale, is it?”</p><p>“Er, yes.” Father Aziraphale shook his hand, but it was clear he was still taking in the sight in front of him. From his expression, Anthony Crowley - a tattooed man in his late thirties - was not at all the person Aziraphale was expecting to see. “It’s a family name.”</p><p>“That’s right, Gabriel told me you have deep roots in the area?”</p><p>“Yes.” Aziraphale sounded mildly irritated, though Anthony couldn’t tell whether it was at him, or the Bishop’s willingness to dish his personal history. </p><p><em> Probably for the best that Gabriel never called him about me, </em> he thought. Despite the Bible’s many admonitions against it, gossip was certainly a favorite vice of the Bishop’s. </p><p>“It’s a lovely place,” Anthony said, gesturing out the window at the church grounds. “Don’t get gardens like this at the London parishes.” Even though the ground was frozen and the branches were bare, he could see plenty of potential there.</p><p>“You’re from the city, then?”</p><p>Anthony nodded. He fought the urge to fidget with his clerical collar, as if he needed to call the other priest’s attention to it. </p><p><em> We’re peers </em> , he reminded himself. <em> You’ve been ordained, same as him.  </em></p><p>But here, standing on the stomped-flat green carpet of the parish offices, catching glimpses of overstuffed library shelves and photos of strangers hung on the walls, he felt like a child again, yanked by the ear, dragged before some self-righteous arbiter of his fate.</p><p><em> Take courage </em>, he told himself. He’d done far more dangerous things - things that left him with cracked jawbones or arrest warrants out - than simply asking another man about a job listing. </p><p>“Gabriel said you were looking for an associate priest?”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale had decided to take the visitor - Father Anthony Crowley, he’d learned - on a tour of the church grounds. Most everything was dead, or whatever version of temporarily-dead it became in the wintertime, but at least the chapel’s stained glass windows looked lovely from the outside.</p><p>“Who handles your building and grounds?” Anthony asked, reaching out to run a hand over a crumbling section of mossed-over stone. </p><p>“Ana has a boy - well, I suppose he’d be a young adult now - she pays him to come around a few times a season, rake up the leaves and so forth.”</p><p>“Ana is your sexton?”</p><p>Aziraphale felt a flush of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. He didn’t know what well-funded urban parish Father Anthony was used to, with their committees and commissions, but he knew his little church would seem positively parochial in comparison. </p><p>“We don’t exactly have a sexton,” he confessed, noticing for perhaps the first time that the St. Francis statue was missing an ear and several fingers. “It’s really just me here, and Ana - she helps out with the office, and everything - and a handful of volunteers who help sort out the Christmas and Easter services, that sort of thing. We’re a very small parish,” he finished apologetically.</p><p>But rather than look disappointed or judgmental, the other man broke out in a wide grin. “Hey, Jesus and the twelve, right?”</p><p>Aziraphale’s face turned pink at the implication. “I certainly don’t think -” he stammered, before Anthony cut him off.</p><p>“Let’s just hope Miss Ana is more of a John the Beloved than Judas Iscariot, hm?”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>LENT</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It had seemed like a very sensible decision at the time, Aziraphale had to admit. After hiring Crowley on the spot back in March, he’d discovered that the parish’s shoestring budget didn’t include much of a salary for their new associate priest.</p><p>“Why on earth are housing prices in Tadfield so high?” Aziraphale had lamented to Ana one night over leftover communion wine. “Poor Anthony’s having the damndest time finding a place to live.”</p><p>“Some magazine put us on a list a few years ago,” Ana said, in that patient way she had whenever she had to explain something to the older priest. “You can’t rent a private flat for love or money, these days.”</p><p>“What am I going to do? The parish loves him, we might finally be able to start a youth and family program - we can’t lose him now. But I just can’t pay him enough to stay!”</p><p>“Well,” Anathema had said, “how big is the rectory?”</p><p>The rectory - a house built on the church property for the priest to live in - was, in fact, a three bedroom home, far more space than one single man needed. He knew the priest before him had rented out the rooms to fill out the church’s budget, but something had kept Aziraphale from doing so.</p><p>If asked, he wouldn’t have been able to say why, exactly. He knew the Church was a long way away from allowing it, but he sometimes allowed himself to imagine what the house would be like with a family living in it - not temporary boarders, but someone to love, someone to raise children with.</p><p>But he’d been living there for nearly two decades now, alone, and it was time to let go of whatever fantasy had kept him from letting anyone else in.</p><p>And so, as the Church settled into the somber and penitent season of Lent, Anthony Crowley moved in with Aziraphale Fell.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Reminds you of seminary, doesn’t it?” Anthony burst through the door of Aziraphale’s room, carrying a steaming mug of coffee. “Staying up all night talking theology and drinking enough caffeine to stop a horse’s heart.”</p><p>“I’d be finished with this homily already if you hadn’t interrupted me for dinner.” Anthony could tell Aziraphale was doing his best to sound grumpy as he took the mug and sipped gratefully. </p><p>“What did you do before me, hm? Sit at your desk with some cheese on toast, writing sermons through the evening without taking a proper break for supper?”</p><p>Anthony regretted his jab a bit when he saw something like sadness, or regret, flicker across the other man’s face. </p><p>“Hey, I was only joking. Come on. It’s better than locusts and honey, that’s for sure.”</p><p>Aziraphale smiled at him, then, and Anthony felt his heart flutter the way it always did when he elicited one of those rare grins. Father Aziraphale was friendly with all the parishioners, well loved and very pastoral, but he didn’t often show genuine joy like that.</p><p>“Did they teach you that in seminary?” Aziraphale asked, having completely abandoned his work.</p><p>“Teach me what? How to cook a proper supper?”</p><p>“No - all these jokes about the Bible.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean, you’re always making these jokes. The day we met, you compared our small parish to the twelve Apostles, and me to - well, to Christ. Now you’re in here talking locusts and honey. I’ve never heard anyone else talk like that. Making fun with Scripture.”</p><p>Anthony shrugged. “We’re priests, what else are we supposed to joke about? I used to know a great one about an epileptic oyster harvester and a sick prostitute.”</p><p>Aziraphale kicked him out of the room immediately upon hearing the joke, but it was worth it just to see the look on his face when he heard the punchline. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Hello, you’ve reached the parish offices of Saint Sebastian’s, Tadfield.” Aziraphale had his chipper phone greeting down pat, after so many years. Half the time it was a wrong number, and the rest was usually Ernestine Shadwell, who lived just down the road and liked to let her favorite priest know about anything she suspected might be demonic, sinful, or “just a bit off.”</p><p>Recently, she’d called to ask him to pray for a friend of hers who had posted foul language on Facebook, and also wanted to ask whether the neon cross she’d seen on another church’s sign was “appropriate.” Aziraphale fully expected another session of theological fussing on Ernestine’s part, and was surprised to hear a much younger sounding woman’s voice.</p><p>“Hi, is Father Anthony there?”</p><p>The emotion that shot through Aziraphale at hearing a young woman ask for his associate priest like that was not something he could have named, or described, and fortunately it was gone quickly. </p><p>“Yes, may I ask who’s calling?”</p><p>“This is Deirdre Young. We’ve been to Mass a few times this year?”</p><p>“Oh! Yes, I remember. You have a son - Adam, right?”</p><p>He heard Deirdre sigh over the phone. “Yes, that’s why I’m calling. He seemed to really respond to Father Anthony’s homily last week, about Lent, but now he’s saying he wants to give up <em> school </em> for Lent, and, well, I was hoping Father Anthony could talk to him.”</p><p>“I can see why that would be concerning,” Aziraphale said, in his most pastoral attitude. “I’ll get Father Crowley on line for you right away.”</p><p>When he heard Anthony pick up the phone in his office and immediately start laughing at whatever Mrs. Young was saying, that strange feeling came back. He decided to proofread the Easter service bulletin.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“You ever pruned a shrub, Adam?” Father Anthony Crowley stood in the cold, barren church garden, holding the largest pair of pruning shears he could find in the shed, watching an eleven year old kid poke holes in a snowdrift with one ungloved finger.</p><p>“No,” Adam said.</p><p>“Wanna try?” Anthony handed the oversized shears to the kid, who took them and looked at them in wonder.</p><p>That was one thing about kids. They loved anything that seemed like it ought to be forbidden. Humans were funny that way. Adam snipped the frigid air a few times. </p><p>“Here, cut here.” Anthony directed him to a branch on a nearby bush. Adam looked at him questioningly, but Anthony just nodded, encouraging him. He let the boy slice a few twigs off before speaking again. “Do you know why we prune bushes?”</p><p>Adam shrugged.</p><p>“Come on. Why would I be out here freezing my arse off if there wasn’t a purpose?”</p><p>Hearing a priest swear always had an effect on kids - most adults, too, if he was honest. Adam looked at him, wide eyed. “Um,” he tried. “To make it smaller?”</p><p>“Ah! That’s what it seems like, isn’t it?” Anthony grinned, taking the pruning shears from Adam and expertly slicing off a few more branches. “But did you know that taking the right parts away, at the right time, makes the plant grow bigger and fuller when the springtime comes?”</p><p>It didn’t look like Adam fully believed him. Anthony liked that - a kid who didn’t just swallow everything the grownups fed him. “Really?”</p><p>“Really. But you have to snip the right parts. What do you think would happen if I cut it off...right here?” Anthony held the shears over the central stem of the shrub, right at its base.</p><p>“It would die?”</p><p>“That’s right. So if we want the plant to be its best, coolest self, we have to cut parts of it off - but not the parts that help it grow.”</p><p>Adam kicked a clump of snow, showering both his and Anthony’s shoes with pale gray slush. “Is this about my mum? She made me come talk to you today.”</p><p>“You’re smarter than most people I met in seminary,” Anthony said with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m trying to make a point here. Your mum said you tried to give up school for Lent?”</p><p>“You said we could give up anything we wanted!”</p><p>Anthony narrowed his eyes, maintaining his playful smile but taking a more serious tone. “Yikes,” he said. “I must be a pretty bad preacher if that’s what you think I said!”</p><p>“No you’re not!” Adam sounded defensive on the priest’s behalf. “I always like it when you preach. Father Aziraphale’s sermons are boring. Yours are funny.”</p><p>“What I said,” Anthony continued, “was that we can give up anything for Lent if we think that giving that thing up will help us be a better version of ourselves.”</p><p>“But school <em> does </em> keep me from that! I’m way better when I’m playing in the woods with my friends, or reading my books at home with my dog.”</p><p>“I’ll make you a deal,” Anthony said, twirling the shears around in his fingers in a way he could tell impressed Adam. “Next week, every day when you’re at school, you look around and see if there’s someone you could help. Then, when you’re in the woods or reading at home, you do the same thing. Then you come see me after Mass on Sunday. If it turns out you have more opportunities to help people when you’re playing outside or reading your books, I’ll tell your mum you can give up school for Lent. But if it’s easier to help people at school, you gotta keep doing that, alright?”</p><p>Adam thought for a moment. “Alright,” he said, tentatively. “But then what do I give up for Lent?”</p><p>Anthony shrugged. “Lots of people give up sweets.”</p><p>“But I love sweets! Can’t I give up vegetables, instead?”</p><p>“That sounds like a fair compromise.” Anthony gave Adam back the shears, leading him to the next bush that needed attention. “So, what kind of books do you like to read?</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>EASTER</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It had been a long time since Aziraphale read a book that wasn’t some new treatise on Catholicism that the Diocese was sending out to all the new priests or the meditations of whatever saint the men’s book group was working through that month.</p><p>Sure, he often flipped through the classics in the parish library when he needed inspiration for a sermon - Thomas Aquinas, Thomas Merton, that sort of thing - but he rarely found time to indulge in something that wasn’t, in some way, for work.</p><p>Suddenly, though, he had become a veritable expert in contemporary young adult literature. It had been weeks since he’d halfheartedly paged through some new book about the “kaleidoscope of Scripture,” but he definitely now had opinions about mazes and the running thereof.</p><p>He didn’t know how, exactly, Anthony had talked him into it, but ever since he’d let the other priest start reading out loud to him from the book Adam Young had lent him, they had settled somehow into a routine that Aziraphale positively adored.</p><p>After dinner, once the washing up was done, Anthony would fix Aziraphale a cup of tea, then the two of them would retire to the sofa in the living room, which was now filled with potted plants of every shape and color. </p><p>And Anthony would read to him.</p><p>The stories were positively absurd - spaceships and video games and teenagers doing all sorts of implausible and irresponsible things - but they were fun, and Anthony read with such gusto, assigning each character their own exaggerated voice, and every time they finished a chapter and Anthony snapped the book shut, Aziraphale felt a little disappointed.</p><p>One night, after they finished a particularly exciting chapter, Anthony sat up from his lounging position on the sofa and looked Aziraphale right in the eyes, which always felt strangely intimate. </p><p>“We don’t have to keep doing this, if you don’t want to,” Anthony said.</p><p>“What?” Aziraphale hardly knew what to say. He felt bereft at the notion that Anthony might stop reading to him in the evenings. </p><p>“It’s just that you never seem all that interested.” Anthony flipped through the book’s pages, making a soft riffling noise. “We just ended on the biggest cliffhanger of the book, and you haven’t asked me to go on. You never do, in fact.”</p><p>“But…” Aziraphale didn’t understand. “We read one chapter a night. You finished the chapter.”</p><p>Anthony raised his eyebrows, looking more amused than judgmental. “Don’t you want to know what happens next?”</p><p>“Yes, but -”</p><p>“Aziraphale.” Anthony suddenly sounded very serious. “It’s okay to ask for what you want.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>“Aziraphale, this can’t possibly be all you do for the Easter service!” Anthony was at his desk in the church office looking over a positively ancient piece of paper, yellowed at the edges, and clearly printed on a machine that would have belonged in a museum right now. Aziraphale said it was the “planning checklist” for Easter day.</p><p>The other priest appeared in the doorway of his office a few moments later. “You don’t have to shout, Anthony.”</p><p>“Well how else are you supposed to hear me?”</p><p>“You could just come over and talk to me! My office is right next door.”</p><p>“That’s how I know I can shout to you. Besides, your office is too stuffy.” ”</p><p>Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes. “Well, better ‘stuffy’ than whatever this is.” He gestured around at Anthony’s office, which was nearly bare except for a bunch of plants, his seminary degree hanging on the wall, and the computer on his desk.</p><p>Anthony fought back a sharp pang of irritation. He knew Aziraphale was only teasing - and besides, when it came to banter, Anthony dished out far more than he got. </p><p>But if he was honest with himself (and he’d learned over the years that this was the only option), the reason he felt uncomfortable in Aziraphale’s office wasn’t necessarily all the clutter...it was what the clutter signified.</p><p>You only ended up with bookshelves that full if you’d stayed in one place long enough. Moving around all the time, like he’d spent his life doing, meant you didn’t hang on to many things. And all the knick-knacks and trinkets, from crosses to cross-stitch, gifts from parish members, framed photos and signed cards - they painted a very clear picture. One of a man well established in his community. Well loved. One with a history, a connection. </p><p>One who belonged.</p><p>“This Easter service,” Anthony said, changing the subject from the disparity between office decor by waving the mimeographed sheet of paper in front of him, “is...I don’t even know what it is. Sad, for one.”</p><p>Aziraphale shrugged. “It’s how we’ve always done it.”</p><p>Anthony wasn’t even going to <em> touch </em>that. “Where’s the celebration? The joyful triumph? The pizzaz?”</p><p>Aziraphale gave a startled little laugh. “The <em> pizzaz </em>?”</p><p>“Someone came back from the DEAD!” Anthony was half-shouting now. “It’s supposed to be the most awesome day of the year!”</p><p>Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exasperated. “If we add too much “pizzaz,” I’ll never hear the end of it from Ernestine.”</p><p>“Last I checked, we submit to the perfect will of Jesus Christ, not Ernestine Shadwell.”</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale didn’t really know what to expect when he put Father Anthony in charge of the Easter service. He told himself that it would be alright, and even if it wasn’t - if Anthony got too cheeky, or too creative, and Ernestine got the Diocese to pester him about it, well, it was Bishop Gabriel’s idea to hire the man in the first place.</p><p>It was strange, giving up so much control to another person like this, after running the parish on his own for so many years. But he found that, despite his worries about how change of any kind might cause trouble, he actually trusted Father Anthony, and he was glad for the help. He’d been doing this alone for so long, he’d forgotten how nice it felt to have someone to work alongside. </p><p><em> It is not good for man to be alone </em>, he thought to himself as he put his vestments on in the tiny sacristy. Then he smiled at himself, realizing how much he was starting to sound like Anthony, the way he sprinkled irreverent Scriptural references throughout conversation.</p><p>The sacristy was quiet as he got dressed. Anthony had been up since daybreak, putting the final preparations on for Easter. Aziraphale heard him getting up and had wandered in for tea, but Anthony shooed him back to bed. They’d worked closely together on the Ash Wednesday and Good Friday services, but Anthony had insisted on giving Aziraphale a break.</p><p>“What do you think Christ was doing in that tomb for three days, hm?” Anthony had asked after Aziraphale tried for the umpteenth time to take on at least some of the work.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Aziraphale had huffed, not sure what that had to do with making the hymn selections and getting them to the organist on time. “Battling death, I suppose.”</p><p>“Nah.” Anthony was leaning back in his desk chair, feet on his desk, a pile of old hymnals scattered around. “I bet he was resting.”</p><p>“<em> Resting </em>?”</p><p>“Yeah. Like a Super Sabbath. I mean, he’d just been crucified for the world’s sins. That’s gotta take a lot out of you. He probably came back right away, then decided to have a little nap before the angels showed up and everyone started freaking out.”</p><p>“What - Anthony, you can’t - are you preaching this in your sermon?”</p><p>“My point is,” Anthony said, “You’ve been running everything around here for, what, nearly twenty years? It’s Holy Week. Take some time for, I don’t know. Holiness, if you like. Or whatever else. Sleeping in. Ironing your socks, guzzling gallons of tea, whatever it is you do in your free time. Just not working.”</p><p>And so Aziraphale had no idea what would greet him when he entered the chapel this Sunday morning. He realized, however, that he was not so much <em> apprehensive </em> as he was <em> curious </em> and <em> excited </em>. It might be Easter, but he felt more like a child on Christmas morning, waiting to open some marvellous and mysterious present. He heard the first few creaks of the organist warming up, and figured it was time to head out into the chapel. And when he did, he could hardly believe his eyes.</p><p>There, standing at the altar, was Father Anthony Crowley, looking positively resplendent. Those holiday vestments certainly hadn’t come from the dusty closet at St. Sebastian’s - a dazzling silver chasuble that glittered with metallic threads, and a matching stole in gold. </p><p>“Ah, he rises!” Anthony joked, raising his arms to welcome Aziraphale, who blushed at the nearly-blasphemous greeting. “Well...what do you think?”</p><p>Aziraphale didn’t even know what to think. The chapel was full of radiant lilies and garlands of flowers, many of which he recognized from Anthony’s office. White candles twinkled everywhere, and the whole place felt warm, bright, and...new. Fresh. Full of hope.</p><p>“It’s beautiful,” Father Aziraphale breathed. </p><p>“And that’s not even the best part.” Anthony was beaming now. “I’ll let them in now, shall I?”</p><p>Father Anthony went to the door of the chapel, opened it, and led in about a half dozen parishioners, some of whom Father Aziraphale recognized as regular attendees, and some of whom were obviously newcomers. The oldest among them was, of course, Ernestine Shadwell, and the youngest was Adam Young, who carried a golden trumpet.</p><p>“Thanks for getting here early, everyone,” Anthony said, giving Adam a high five and shaking hands with the older folks. “Let’s do one last rehearsal, shall we, before the big moment? Service starts in half an hour.”</p><p>To Aziraphale’s absolute amazement, everyone filed into place behind the choir rail. They hadn’t had a choir at St. Sebastian’s in years - it was usually just Aziraphale, the organist they hired from a local music school, and whoever felt like croaking along with the hymn on any given day.</p><p>Anthony raised his arms theatrically, playing at being a conductor, then turned to flash one smile at Aziraphale before starting.</p><p>Adam’s trumpet rang out, loud and clear, filling the chapel with sound. Then the ragtag little choir began to sing:</p><p>
  <em> Christ the Lord is risen today, Alleluia!<br/>
</em>
  <em>Earth and heaven in chorus say, Alleluia! </em>
</p><p>Aziraphale found himself singing along, grinning, belting out enthusiastic Alleluias after each line.</p><p>
  <em> Raise your joys and triumphs high, Alleluia!<br/>
</em>
  <em>Sing, ye heavens, and earth reply, Alleluia! </em>
</p><p>It wasn’t hard to raise his joys and triumphs high, this Eastertide, he realized as he watched Father Anthony’s hands fluttering through the air. The past three months had been some of his best days as a priest, full of new joys - Anthony in his stocking feet, flipping pancakes on a Saturday morning - and plenty of triumphs - a small but thriving youth and family ministry, the gorgeous blossoming of the church gardens.  </p><p>
  <em>Love's redeeming work is done, Alleluia!<br/>
</em>
  <em>Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia! </em>
</p><p>Some sort of lump rose in Aziraphale’s throat, then, as he sung those lines. Love’s redeeming work, indeed. His eyes left the other priest’s hands and roamed up his arms, draped in such lovely silver cloth, and to his face, one red curl falling over his forehead, the Easter candles reflecting in his dark glasses. He found his voice again for the next <em> Alleluia! </em></p><p>
  <em>Death in vain forbids him rise, Alleluia!<br/>
</em>
  <em>Christ has opened paradise, Alleluia! </em>
</p><p>Paradise. Aziraphale had never thought much about what that truly meant. He told himself that Heaven was the Lord’s department, and that his time was better spent tending to the cares of his worldly flock. Even when people asked him about the afterlife, which they did often - him being a priest, and all - he demurred, found something noncommittal to say, and suggested a book for them to read.</p><p>But now, as he heard a chorus of voices declare that Christ has opened paradise, a new image materialized, unbidden, in his mind. The inside of the rectory, full of books and plants, sunlight streaming through the windows, and the smell of dinner roasting in the kitchen, and Anthony, beside him.</p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>It had all gone perfectly to plan. Every Wednesday, while Aziraphale was shut away in the church library with the men’s book group, Crowley had snuck in the handful of volunteers he’d managed to round up to rehearse for the Easter service. All of them had been absolutely forbidden to tell Father Aziraphale about the surprise, and they had gone above and beyond to protect the secret.</p><p>Ana, of course, was in on it; and Adam loved to serve as the “lookout” for the long minutes it took for Anthony to guide old Ernestine from her car up the chapel steps.</p><p>And it was all worth it - the months spent tending to the fussy and delicate flowers he’d chosen back in January to complement the chapel; the many early mornings getting the chapel set up; digging through boxes of old, dusty, mostly-broken candles to find enough for one morning service; the endless distractions required to keep Aziraphale from poking his nose in - when he saw the look on Father Aziraphale’s face that morning.</p><p>He had planned to save the choral addition for the actual service, but he just couldn’t contain himself when he saw Aziraphale exit the sacristy. It would be a little private concert, just for the two of them, before the madness of the Easter service would begin.</p><p>Just like he did in practice, Anthony raised his hands to signal the choir, even though he was pretty sure only half of them could actually follow a beat. He’d arranged with Adam to play his trumpet especially loud during those portions of the hymn that were especially challenging for his singers. But his attention wasn’t on Ernestine’s tone-deaf warbling, or what appeared to be a smashed bumblebee on the inside of Adam’s trumpet. All he cared about was Aziraphale, who - thanks be to God - was grinning and even singing along.</p><p><em> Soar we now where Christ has led, Alleluia!<br/>
</em><em>Following our exalted Head, Alleluia! </em> </p><p>He had been led here, he had to admit now. Perhaps Bishop Gabriel did deserve some credit, after all. Though Anthony sometimes struggled to believe that the Heavenly Lord of all the Cosmos would step in to fiddle with the lives of individuals, especially some goofy ruffian from the London streets, he couldn’t help but feel that there was something Divine in his ending up here. Some blessing, some gentle nudges from the loving Christ, that led him to Tadfield. To St. Sebastian’s. </p><p>To Aziraphale.</p><p>
  <em> Made like him, like him we rise, Alleluia!<br/>
</em>
  <em>Ours the cross, the grave, the skies, Alleluia!  </em>
</p><p>He had never been happier than he was these past three months, gardening under the grey English skies, rising early with Aziraphale to say the rosary and then drink tea together. </p><p>
  <em> King of glory, soul of bliss, Alleluia!<br/>
</em>
  <em>Everlasting life is this, Alleluia! </em>
</p><p>Crowley didn’t know much about everlasting life, but he did know about this one. And he knew there was plenty of bliss to be found in a little three-bedroom rectory attached to a simple chapel. Bliss in his soul when Aziraphale appeared in the frigid garden holding a thermos of warm mulled wine. Bliss in his soul when he found himself three hours past bedtime because he and Aziraphale couldn’t bring themselves to end a raucous discussion of Bishop Gabriel’s foibles. Bliss in his soul when he made a sideways Bible reference and he could tell Aziraphale was forcing back a laugh. </p><p>
  <em>Thee to know, thy power to prove, Alleluia! </em>
</p><p>As the choir held onto the final line, he turned to look at Aziraphale, soft blue eyes meeting his, crinkling with a smile, and glimmering with something else. Both of their mouths formed the final words of the hymn, and something, something sweeter than the scent of the lilies and brighter than the candles’ flame, hung in the air between them.</p><p>
  <em>Thus to sing, and thus to love, Alleluia!</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was part of a gift exchange for the <a href="https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/">Good Omens Kink Meme</a> - it's a great community, check us out! And major thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan/pseuds/Langerhan">Langerhan</a> for organizing this wonderful event!</p><p>Any inaccuracies in How The Catholic Church Works are simply because I wanted to write my best gentle clerical pining without silly things like accuracy getting in the way.</p><p>If you like this sort of thing, I have another clerical AU called <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/1630222">St. Dymphna's</a>, which is the spiritual sister to Ordinary Time.</p><p>I'd absolutely be interested in continuing on through the liturgical calendar with this story, if that's something folks want; so if you have any requests for that (do they get together? is there a misunderstanding? is one ready before the other?) please let me know in the comments. This is out of my general wheelhouse so I don't know what sorts of tropes people are the most hype for. Priority of course goes to @gayforgoodomens for requests &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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